Page 41 of Selfish Desires

“Wendy,” I repeated through a heavy breath. “I’m home.”

It had been six weeks since Vincent essentially gave up his life in Miami for…me. After I found Vincent on my porch that night, nearly half frozen to death, I thawed him inside my white clawfoot tub. When he regained sensation back in his limbs, he wasted no time making up all his mistakes to me. I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy the endless and unconditional attention, love, or whatever you wanted to call it. He was showering me with every second of his life.

I had never been given this many flowers. Literally, the restaurant was bursting with roses, and while the customers loved the new splashes of color against the white decor, something about them reminded me of why they were there in the first place. Constant reminders of the sorrow Vincent harbored toward what he did to me, how he just abandoned me. I would have liked to eventually receive roses just because. And I often wondered when we would reach that day. When doing little things, like making coffee for me in the morning before I left for work or making sure a hot dinner awaited me on the table, simply because it was the kind gesture to make after a long day at work. And speaking of work, Vincent was officially unemployed. I was shocked to learn that not only did he give the poker games up, but he also returned the debts owed to him. He said it cost him millions, but Vincent assured me it was a small sacrifice in what he got in return: me.

But everything was too perfect, almost unreal. The romantic gestures, the lavish gifts, the loving words whispered in hushed tones as he held me close in the dead of night... it all felt like a dream. A dream I was afraid would burst if I dared to believe in its reality. My heart pounded with fear and anticipation whenever his fingers grazed my skin or his eyes caught mine from across the room. Fear of losing him again and anticipation of what future awaited us.

And then there was the fact that he had no tangible life outside me. No job, no hobby, no friends to spend time with... Just me. As much as I adored his attention and affection, I couldn't help but worry about him. As much as I wanted to believe in our happily ever after, I knew from experience that things were never as simple as they seemed. There were nights when I’d wake up and find him staring at the ceiling, lost in thoughts he wouldn’t share with me. Those were the moments when I saw glimpses of the old Vincent—the Vincent before Miami, before poker, before everything crashed down—and it scared me. Because I didn’t want the old Vincent back. I wanted this new one who loved me so fiercely it brought tears to my eyes.

After an impossibly long day at the restaurant, I staggered home, feet aching, back needing to be cracked. Still, I couldn’t find the right position for relief, wanting to collapse. But as I walked through the door, I was greeted by the sight of Vincent preparing dinner. The soft glow of the lights above our heads, the smell of something delicious wafting from the kitchen, and the sight of him in an apron made me chuckle despite my fatigue. He looked up at me and smiled, a glimmer of love playing in his eyes.

“I know it’s late, but I thought we could use some comfort food,” he said, stirring whatever was simmering on the stove.

I closed my eyes and pressed my hands against my temples to ease the day's tensions. “You know I'm not hungry,” I sighed.

“Oh, you’re not?” Vincent pivoted and crossed his arms, muscles bulging through the plain white Henley, and raised a wicked eyebrow.

“No.” I rolled my lip through my teeth, fighting a smile. “When did you learn how to cook?”

“Well, I’ve had some extra time on my hands. And I have to say, I think I’m getting pretty fucking good at it.” Vincent lazily stirred the wooden spoon handle in whatever concoction was boiling on the stove. And I wasn’t going to lie. It smelled pretty fucking phenomenal. The air was thick with the scent of simmering spices and rich, savory broth. My nostrils flared as I inhaled the mouth-watering aroma, my stomach growling in response. Underneath it all, I could detect the faint hint of Vincent's cologne, a mix of sandalwood and musk.

“Are you making a beef stew?” I crept closer, shedding my coat to the floor, not caring about any mess.

“Why don’t you come here and find out?” he teased, making a come hither motion with his index finger.

“I have to admit this is impressive.”I smacked my lips together.

With a smug grin, Vincent pulled me closer, wrapping one arm snugly around my waist, “How about a taste?” His voice dropped an octave, sending a shiver down my spine. The way he looked at me, the way his eyes sparkled with mischief...it was intoxicating.

I nodded in silent agreement, leaning into him as he captured a spoonful of the stew and brought it to my lips. My eyes fluttered closed as the warmth spread through my mouth, exploding in a medley of flavors I couldn’t quite place. Beef and carrots danced on my tongue while a depth of flavor hinted at hours of simmering. I hummed in appreciation, savoring the lingering taste.

“See,” Vincent mumbled against my ear, his warm breath sending another jolt coursing through my body. “I told you.”

A small dribble of juice lingered on my lip, remaining unnoticed by Vincent as he swiped his thumb against it, spreading it along my mouth and dipping his digit against my tongue. I sucked the savory saltiness from his skin as Vincent released a growl, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Good girl.” He removed his hand from my mouth. “You said you’re achy from today?”

“I am.” I forced the words out, now fighting a new ache spreading from my stomach down to my sex, wishing Vincent would put anything of his back into my mouth.

“We’re going to fix that. Ice will probably help.” Vincent’s deep voice rocked my bones, wondering what he meant. “Go upstairs, get undressed, lay down, and wait for me on the bed.”

“When you say get undressed…” I trailed off, heat radiating every inch of my skin.

“Do not have a single fucking piece of clothing on.”

I left Vincent standing in the kitchen, stew still simmering on the stove, his gaze burning a trail on my back as I walked out. As anticipation swelled, I climbed the stairs, each step making my heart pound against my ribcage.

In the bedroom, I shucked off my clothes with a speed I didn't know I was capable of. The shirt, pants, and underwear lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, completely forgotten. I slipped under the cool sheets, the silky fabric touching my skin, fueling the fire already raging within.

After what seemed an eternity, he entered the room. His shirt was gone, and he held something behind his back. Vincent’s eyes drank me in, raking over every inch of exposed skin with a hunger that made my breath hitch.

“Comfortable?” He sauntered to the bed, pulling back the covers and exposing me to his gaze. My body trembled as his eyes roamed down from my face, tracing the contours of my breasts, pebbled nipples, stomach, and clenched thighs. Vincent revealed what he’d been hiding: a bowl filled with clear ice cubes and a silvery metallic spoon rested on top. An involuntary gasp escaped my lips at the sight of it.

I squirmed an inch away, but Vincent’s free hand clamped down on my thigh, squeezing its flesh until a tiny yelp jumped from my throat, triggering the corner of his mouth to lift. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice alone sending a rush of warm arousal straight to my pussy. The mattress sank under the weight of Vincent’s body settling, still holding me down with one hand.

My body thrummed with a burning desire, my clit begging to be sucked, my pussy begging to be filled. But I knew if I didn’t follow the rules and be a good little slut, I’d only be denied. This was the insatiable game Vincent and I played since he returned, and I was addicted. There was more I yearned for, but Vincent didn’t know it yet.

“Are you going to be my good little whore, or will I need to tie your hands to the bed?” Vincent pinched my inner thigh harder, creeping closer to the apex of my thighs, the place I needed him to touch most.

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